


Hex AU

by wheel_pen



Category: Hex (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 07:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14420748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: This is based on a dream I had about Hex, in which Azazeal is the Demon King, ruling over a realm of supernatural creatures that most people can't see. He and Cassie have reached a detente where she is running an herbal shop and raising teenage Malachi, but Azazeal keeps a close eye on her, much to her irritation.





	Hex AU

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

There were a few customers in the shop; Cassie was helping one woman pick out the right selection of herbs for her situation, while Malachi checked out another one at the register. It was game of him to help out, but Cassie thought she probably ought to hire someone else soon, and let him be free to be a teenager for a while. No telling when that would end around here, and Azazeal would want him to take a more active role in… whatever he did. It would just be a little difficult to find someone who fit in with them well.

The bell above the door rang, and two more women walked in. Thelma danced over to Cassie’s side. “Did you see?” she asked in alarm. “The one’s a demon!”

The woman Cassie was assisting could neither see nor hear Thelma, as she was a ghost. Technically, all supernatural creatures were ‘demons,’ though some did not appreciate a label that had such negative connotations these days. All that mattered, really, was whether or not you were subject to rule by the Demon King, and in most cases, the answer was yes.

Fortunately, most mere mortals could not see demons, and so had no idea what sort of bizarre world was seething around them.

“Does that sound good?” Cassie asked her customer pleasantly, and the woman agreed and made her way up to the register to pay. Betsy, Malachi’s demon bodyguard, had come out of the back room to stand by his side, watching the unknown demon suspiciously. The small room seemed crowded to Cassie, but the customer couldn’t see at least three of the people in it.

Cassie intercepted the mortal woman who had entered with the demon; they appeared to be together. The woman might be someone like Cassie—perhaps not a witch, but someone else who had an insight to the supernatural world, though she still lived and died in the normal fashion. Azazeal always knew what they were right away, but Cassie lacked that gift.

“Can I help you?” Cassie asked the woman. Her demon companion had a misshapen face, as demons often did. Azazeal claimed Picasso had had the capacity to see demons.

“Just looking, thanks,” she replied, walking on by. Cassie made eye contact with the demon but let them pass. Sometimes they just came to gawk at her and Malachi. Annoying, but it went with the territory.

Cassie moved up to the front, checking in with her son. “Did you get lunch?” she asked, and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m capable of feeding myself, Mum!” he complained, good-naturedly. He looked to be about seventeen, with striking eyes and sharp cheekbones like his father; but actually he had only been born about five years ago. Which meant Cassie, at twenty-three, looked more like his sister or even girlfriend, and certainly never like his mother. It made going out together a little difficult sometimes, and more importantly, she had missed a lot of typical ‘mother’ moments early on, especially considering her initial ambivalence about motherhood at all (to put it mildly).

“Right, sorry,” she assured him, but then couldn’t help adding, “Did you eat some of the salad I made last night?”

“ _I_ am not the one who scarfs all the junk food, Mum!” he reminded her. That was Thelma, because ghosts could apparently eat but not gain weight, which was easily the best thing about being dad, in Thelma’s opinion.

“I tried some of that salad,” Thelma informed her friend, bouncing over. “I don’t see the point. Maybe if you added bacon and bleu cheese and mini marshmallows…” Her eyes were glazing over just imagining this treat, while Cassie felt slightly nauseous.

“Can you check in the back to see how much more hensbane we have?” Cassie prompted Thelma as a redirect. “That woman this morning bought most of what was on the shelf.”

Cassie had decided to channel her supernatural abilities—which still seemed rather nebulous and ill-defined to her—into herbalism, which provided her with a feeling of independence from Azazeal (no matter how illusory that was), some social contacts in the local alternative medicine community, and a chance to garden. Plants were so much less complicated than people, especially supernatural people.

The remaining customer approached the register as Thelma left, her demon companion loitering behind with a sense of boredom. “Do you have any horse-adder?” she asked knowledgeably.

“No, sorry,” Cassie responded immediately. “We don’t sell anything that toxic here.”

“I have a rat problem,” the woman went on, a bit pushy.

Cassie wasn’t going to suddenly produce a bottle from behind the counter. “I would try the hardware store,” she suggested. “Traps or poison pellets. Once the rats are gone, you can sprinkle bloodwort around the—“

“I wanted something more natural,” the woman interrupted.

“Cyanide is natural,” Cassie informed her dryly. Malachi started to scoot past her, letting his mother deal with the pest. “If you want to try some bloodwort first—“

The next actions happened in a blur. The customer stepped back; the demon with her drew a sword; various people yelled, and Cassie and Malachi quickly dropped to the ground behind the counter. Betsy, called into action to protect Malachi, charged the intruder with a roar and they grappled, knocking shelves and bottles over. With the attacker distracted, Cassie and Malachi made a run for the back room, where Thelma signaled frantically.

“I knew she was trouble!” Thelma hissed. “We should have a ‘no demons’ policy—“

“Mum, we should go—“ Malachi insisted, as Cassie watched the destruction of her shop (again) from around the doorway.

It was probably sensible to hop in the car and head for Azazeal’s place—or just run there, he was only a block away. But Cassie didn’t like running to him every time there was a problem. Besides—“I think Betsy’s winning,” she decided, and Malachi came around to watch.

Unfortunately, at that moment the attacker got in a lucky strike, skewering Betsy neatly through the midsection, and Cassie and Malachi gasped. The blade was demon-hardened and would kill Betsy as soon as such a wound would a human. Before the attacker could become triumphant, however, Betsy started to laugh, her off-kilter cackle that they usually heard only when she watched game shows. To the alarm of all Betsy pulled the blade further _into_ herself, protruding out her back, and the attacker released it with wide eyes. Then in one swift motion Betsy shoved the blade back _out_ , hard enough to impale her attacker with it.

Two more demons burst through the shop door, but Cassie recognized them as part of the group who constantly watched her and Malachi at Azazeal’s request. This was the sort of thing they were useful at—hauling the attacker away, though she was beyond their reach now—but they were too late for Betsy, who collapsed to the shop floor.

“There was a human with her!” Thelma informed Azazeal’s demons, who were not alone. This place would be crawling with them soon, and probably Azazeal himself, looking so concerned yet smug—

“Betsy!” Malachi ran to the demon on the ground, kneeling over her helplessly. “She’s not—she’s not gone yet!” he announced urgently. It was tricky to say a demon was not _dead_. “Mum!” he insisted plaintively. “We have to help her!”

“Don’t take the sword out!” Thelma warned. “I saw that on the telly!”

“Actually we’ll need that sword,” said one of Azazeal’s demons dispassionately. “Evidence.”

“I don’t think you can save her, Your Majesty,” another demon told Malachi, in a kinder tone. “ _So_ thoughtful of you to want to, sire, but it would be easier to get you a new—“

Malachi shoved back the demon who tried to pull the sword out of Betsy. She had been with him for several years now, and had proven her loyalty and bravery on a number of occasions. But she was not really a three-dimensional being, and to Cassie it was kind of like seeing your dog struck by a car—sad, yes, but best to put her down soon and end her misery.

“Malachi—“ she started to say, and then he looked at her with those eyes, and she fell for them, like she always fell for his father’s. “Bring her in the back, we’ll see what we can do,” she agreed with a sigh. “Find the human who was here,” Cassie ordered the remaining demons, as Malachi hurried past her with Betsy in his arms. “And if you want to be useful—start cleaning up.”

**

An hour later. “You’re going to have to take her to your father,” Cassie decided reluctantly.

“Yeah, I know,” Malachi agreed, his tone a mix of wonder and concern. As the son of a witch and the Demon King, his own powers were equally nebulous and ill-defined, but much stronger than Cassie’s, and it was hard to predict exactly what they would do.

In this case, they had saved Betsy, but also made her a little… different. Which was something only Azazeal could figure out.

“This is so pretty,” Betsy told Thelma, holding up a red sequined dress. “Where did you get it?”

“A morgue in Lincolnshire,” Thelma admitted. As a ghost she could only wear dead people’s clothes (or something specially demon-made).

“Are you sure you don’t mind if I borrow it?” Betsy asked politely.

“No, go ahead,” Thelma assured her gamely. “I don’t know if it will fit—“

Betsy was built like a character from _Nightmare Before Christmas_ , all gangly pale limbs with an unnatural hourglass figure. She stepped into the dress and pulled it up, and it molded to her shape perfectly, like it had been drawn on her. “I feel so pretty!” Betsy enthused.

“They don’t do that for _me_ ,” Thelma complained of the clothing.

Betsy studied herself in the mirror, and the others studied _her_. Her face was no longer misshapen, as most demons’ were; in fact she looked fairly normal, as demons went. And she had made any number of articulate comments since waking up, when usually she was more of the silent type. Less a dog now than a real person, actually. Which could certainly be seen as an improvement, but when it came to demons—who were generally rather static—any kind of change was suspicious.

“I’m surprised he isn’t here already,” Cassie commented of Azazeal, who usually took any excuse to invade her shop and her life.

“Oh, I think he has that wedding today,” Malachi remembered vaguely. As the Demon King, his father occasionally officiated at ceremonies for high-level followers. Malachi had of course been invited as well, but had declined.

“Still, that wouldn’t usually—“

Cassie was interrupted by a visiting demon handing her a phone. “His Majesty’s assistant!” she announced urgently, and Cassie took the call.

Azazeal had heard about their trouble, of course. “I’m not surprised,” Cassie replied calmly. Of course he was prepared to rush down there—“Not necessary, his team is handling things fine.” Actually they were probably making a hash of her shop; she was afraid to go downstairs and check.

Well, after the wedding Azazeal would drop by—“ _Really_ not necessary,” Cassie repeated firmly. “Malachi is coming to the palace to see him,” she added quickly. “Right now. Hope that’s not inconvenient.” She hung up before receiving an answer.

Malachi rolled his eyes. “See, you’re always sniping at him,” he pointed out, but Cassie was unmoved.

“That wasn’t even him,” she dismissed, “and everyone will be thrilled that you showed up to the wedding.” Malachi was considered something of a dreamboat in the demon world. “Besides,” she added, watching ‘new Betsy’ try on shoes, “this is important.” They couldn’t have a bodyguard whose stability was unknown. And as today’s events proved, they certainly _needed_ a bodyguard.

Malachi could not argue with that. “Okay. Betsy! Come on, we’re leaving now.” Betsy looked up alertly, an expression reminiscent of her former self, and followed him out the door.

“Thelma, why don’t you go, too,” Cassie suggested.

“Oh, I don’t think I should leave you alone—“ the ghost began.

“I’m hardly alone,” Cassie pointed out. The shop and apartments above were crawling with Azazeal’s demons, who were collecting evidence, cleaning, and whatever else they did at times like this. “You should keep an eye on Malachi, until we know what’s going on with Besty.”

This spin made Thelma puff up with importance; though in truth Cassie just wanted some time to herself, without people fussing over her, well-meaning as they were. And then she was going back down to the shop to blister a few demons about the proper way to organize it (again), and she didn’t need Thelma, with her somewhat haphazard understanding of Cassie’s system, getting underfoot. And, Thelma would have more fun at the wedding anyway—demons could actually see her, alleviating a somewhat lonely existence for the extrovert.

Thelma spun back to her closet. “Now what would be appropriate to wear—“

They could be here all day if Thelma was going to change clothes. “Malachi’s leaving _now_ ,” Cassie noted. “You look fine, you’ll blend right in.” Demons seemed to favor the slightly outré Goth look Thelma had always preferred.

“Right,” she agreed, chasing after Malachi and Betsy. She stuck her head back around the doorway before Cassie could relax. “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” she checked, like the good friend she was.

“I’m sure,” Cassie promised. “You can tell me all about it later.”

“Okay!” Thelma agreed. “Bye!”

**

Malachi drove to the royal palace, even though it was only a short distance away—he didn’t get to drive much, and it could be argued it was safer than walking, since the car had a number of enchantments on it to protect against threats both demon and non. And, it was just cooler to drive up to the palace than to walk.

From the outside the building they approached appeared to be an enormous factor with huge locked gates leading to a parking lot before the bleak, utilitarian exterior; but once you passed through the gates, opened to them by demon attendants, it transformed to a splendid Georgian manor of white limestone, with a circle drive surrounding a bubbling fountain. At least, that was what Malachi saw right now; the view changed depending on the viewer and also their age, according to whatever they found suitably palatial. When Malachi was younger, it had looked to him more like a stereotypical fairytale castle with turrets and crenellations.

“Ooh, how pretty,” Betsy remarked as they drove up. “That’s my favorite shade of black. And the gargoyles are so striking!”

Unsure what to say in response, Malachi silently pulled the car up to the front door, where a uniformed demon was waiting to greet them. “Welcome, Your Majesty,” he said, bowing. His arms seemed to be in the wrong places, though it was best not to look too closely.

“Thanks,” Malachi told him, handing over the car keys for valet service. He was still uncomfortable with the fawning attention, and this was unfortunately the epicenter of it.

The palace doors opened for the three of them, leading them into a vast Art Deco lobby with a checkerboard pattern on the tile floor and gilt-edged mirrors everywhere, a massage chandelier of twisted glass shards dangling above their heads.

“I love how my shoes sound in here!” Betsy observed, tapping her toes as they walked towards the marble-topped reception desk.

“I think she’s kind of fun,” Thelma commented positively. She had never warmed to the ‘old’ Betsy. “We could do a tap-dance routine!” She started in on some rhythmic steps, but then Betsy snapped to attention as the receptionist—a relatively pretty demon with only an oddly-shaped head—turned towards them.

“Welcome, Your Majesty,” she repeated in greeting. “His Majesty the King asks that you proceed to the ballroom, where the ceremony is in progress.” She indicated a door to their left.

“I’ll go first,” Betsy insisted seriously, jumping in front of Malachi, who rolled his eyes but let her. If he was safe anywhere it would be in the demon royal palace, which was why his father was always suggesting they move there.

As they reached the ballroom door another demon staff member opened it slightly and looked in, then, determining that they would not interrupt the ritual unduly, he allowed them to enter. Which meant that next Betsy looked in and surveyed the place.

“It’s safe,” she decided. And then the three of them tried to slip quietly into a huge room full of demons.

Azazeal, the Demon King, stood at the front of the room, on a raised dais behind a podium. Family and friends of the bride and groom stood in neat rows facing him, bedecked in their finest, most fashionable clothes—between creative demon anatomy and avant-garde formal wear, the various silhouettes were disorienting. The happy couple themselves were bound in chains in front of the podium, snarling and struggling in their fine costumes, the occasional howl punctuating Azazeal’s speech about the union of two creatures being an important event for the whole community. He spotted the newcomers at the back but, to Malachi’s relief, did not draw attention to them.

“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Azazeal proclaimed grandly. “Release them!”

Well-trained handlers unlocked the chains and the bride and groom immediately attacked each other. He was a werewolf, she was a selkie; it was not as improbable a match as it seemed, as they were both from prominent families who vacationed in the same exclusive places. They would take a house by the sea and facilitate a new level of harmony between their disparate clans, assuming they didn’t kill each other during the reception. Demon weddings always tended towards the violent, as they felt befit a time of high emotions, and the invited guests gathered around the couple, shouting advice and encouragement to the combatants. More disinterested relatives drifted off towards the food and open bar, and as Azazeal came down from the stage he signaled for the demon orchestra to start playing. He brushed off the glad-handers with a charming smile and headed straight for Malachi.

Azazeal embraced the teen heartily, then held him back at arm’s length. “You’re alright, I assume?” he noted, looking him over. “How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine,” Malachi assured him. “The only one who got hurt was Betsy—“

“Ah, not the _only_ one,” Azazeal corrected. “I’ve got one dead demon in Forensics and one stupefied human in Interrogation, who just keeps talking about her rat problem.” This disappointed him, the human being hypnotized or enchanted somehow to assist the demon—such a dull outcome. He would probably end up just wiping her mind and letting her go, though a public execution would be very popular.

“I’m fine, by the way,” Thelma added, and Azazeal gave her a glance that always made it seem as though he’d forgotten she even existed. Then his eye was caught by Betsy.

“Well, well, well,” he commented suggestively, looking her up and down and taking a stroll around her, and the demon blushed shyly under his scrutiny. Old Betsy never _blushed_. “Dance with me,” he commanded, taking her hand and pulling her in close.

Malachi rolled his eyes. “Dad, let me tell you what happened—“

“Later,” Azazeal dismissed, twisting Betsy away as she giggled nervously. Betsy was not supposed to _giggle_.

“Honestly,” Malachi muttered. His father—who also looked too young to be his parent, though not as extreme as his mother—had his own way of doing things, and he never allowed anyone to interfere with that. Except for Cassie, she seemed to be a special case. But right now he didn’t exactly appear to have her in mind, as he shamelessly flirted with Betsy.

“Oh, look, the fairies have come!” Thelma pointed out, stretching on her toes to see the far side of the room. As supernatural creatures went, fairies tended to be rather attractive by human standards. “Is that Evelina? Maybe I should go say hi. Would that be awkward?”

“After you drunkenly made out at the Harvest Festival, then moped for weeks because she didn’t call you?” Malachi recalled dryly. “Yes, that would be very awkward. Leave it be.”

Thelma sighed deeply, then perked up when a half-horse, half-woman strutted past her. “Do you know anything about centaurs?” she asked Malachi, who tried to ignore her. He had heard far too many times how frustrating it was being a lesbian ghost.

Then Malachi tensed, spotting a dark figure across the room. “It’s the head of Scorpio clan,” he pointed out to Thelma. There was bad blood between them and another group of demons, the Capricorns; members of the latter, having various goat-like qualities, bleated mockingly as the man passed them, and in response the stinger on the end of his long tail turned towards them menacingly.

“He looks angry,” Thelma observed. “Maybe we should go wait somewhere else.” She spotted the buffet table. “Like the kitchens! That would be safe.”

“We’re not going to hide somewhere,” Malachi scoffed. _Yet_. The Scorpio leader was headed for Azazeal, still waltzing with Betsy, and Malachi scooted closer as well, with Thelma following him nervously.

“Azazeal,” the Scorpio leader interrupted gruffly.

“I prefer ‘Your Majesty’ on formal occasions,” Azazeal quipped, with just a hint of danger.

The Scorpio leader gave a perfunctory bow, and with a sigh Azazeal stopped dancing and gave him a crumb of attention. “I ask that you reconsider the trade distribution,” the Scorpio leader said. Clearly he was not the diplomat of the clan. “My clan has served you loyally and made you a lot of money. We deserve to expand, not the Capricorns.”

The Capricorn leader shoved his way into the conversation. “How dare you make demands of His Majesty!” he bellowed, with righteous indignation. Betsy tensed at Azazeal’s side, but he remained relaxed, his arm around her waist as if they were about to start dancing again. “He has favored _us_ with the expansion, _we_ have served him better—“

“Actually,” Azazeal cut in smoothly, “I don’t like either of you. My decision is made, and this constant regurgitation of the topic bores me.” Azazeal could be very dangerous when bored; his glance between the two leaders suggested he was considering pitting them against some kind of fearsome monster for his own amusement. “Don’t bring it up again.” He didn’t need to tell them to go away, but merely dismissed them from his thoughts, refocusing on Betsy. “You dance very well,” he claimed. “And what a beautiful dress. Where did you get it?”

“It’s Thelma’s,” Betsy told him modestly. “She let me borrow it.”

Azazeal glanced between Betsy and Thelma, apparently fascinated by how _they_ were sharing a wardrobe. The two clan leaders shot him, and each other, dark looks but eventually drifted off, though the tight knots of their supporters around the ballroom were still tense. Malachi wondered if he would ever have enough confidence to just turn his back on angry demons and expect them to obey.

“Dad,” he pressed, risking being boring himself, “Betsy was stabbed with a sword—“

“Later,” his father repeated, frustratingly. “What’s your favorite song?” he asked Betsy. “I’ll have them play it for you.”

“Oh, my very favorite song is ‘It’s a Small World,’ from Disney!” Betsy replied immediately. This at least sounded like the ‘old’ Betsy. “It has such a cheerful, positive message!”

Azazeal was a master at controlling his facial expression; one might almost believe he wasn’t horrified by her response. At that moment the groom howled as his bride ripped out a chunk of his flesh with her teeth; but it was only a small chunk, that he didn’t really need, suggesting they were warming to each other.

“Cheerful and positive is exactly what a wedding ought to be,” Azazeal proclaimed grandly. “Maestro, you heard the lady.” Looking slightly pained, the orchestra conductor nodded and segued the current disco number into ‘It’s a Small World.’ “Unfortunately this song has been known to produce psychotic episodes in some people,” he added casually to Betsy, “so we may need to call for extra guards. You’re sure your mother is okay?” he asked Malachi, unexpectedly turning to him. “Why are you here, and not with her?” he demanded of Thelma disapprovingly.

“She told me to come!” Thelma insisted guiltily.

“She’s fine,” Malachi assured him. “You sent a dozen demons to the shop.”

“She’s not really fond of demons,” Azazeal remarked dryly. “I suppose the shop was damaged?”

Malachi tried to take this opening. “Yes, in the fight, when Betsy was stabbed—“

“Was I stabbed?” Betsy asked with a frown. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were stabbed,” Malachi repeated firmly, “and we didn’t think you were—“

“Hey, Your Majesty!” shouted an obnoxious voice. A young Scorpio, with bleach-blond hair and tattoos on his stinger, flashed a straight-edge razor. “This is from Scorpio!” With an unhinged laugh he swung his blade at a woman nearby, slashing her across the face. The female demon—clan Virgo—had lovely eyes but only smooth skin where her nose and lips should be; it was as if he had given her a blood-red mouth with his attack. Her companions shrieked as she collapsed to the ground, blood spilling over her gown.

Azazeal raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s the song,” he suggested, as the guards arrived to take the troublemaker away.

Betsy stepped forward unexpectedly. “That wasn’t very nice,” she informed the young punk, and a bolt of yellow energy shot from her raised hand, leaving a gaping hole in his chest.

Azazeal raised his eyebrow trifle higher.

The Scorpio leader surged up furiously, the Capricorns eager to take them on—any reason for a fight, really. “Stop,” Azazeal ordered calmly. “Your boy deserved that,” he noted to Scorpio.

The Scorpio leader was very loyal to his clan members, though, more loyal than was sensible. “What about _your_ boy?!” he threatened, drawing his knife, and Malachi’s eyes widened in alarm.

Before the Scorpio leader could take another step, a second arc of yellow light immobilized him at Betsy’s command, his chest smoking where it burned through. The Capricorn leader, for whatever foolhardy reason, tried to launch himself at Betsy, only to be caught in another bolt of energy.

Azazeal had seen enough and his hand closed around Betsy’s throat from behind. “Let them go,” he ordered her sharply. He could feel her power thrumming through him but was able to resist it, which ought to be impressive to those watching. “There is no threat to Malachi here,” he added, in a more understanding tone, and the bolts of energy broke off abruptly, leaving two more charred bodies on the floor.

Everyone seemed slightly horrified, including Betsy. There was violence—common at demon social gatherings, such as weddings—and then there was killing two high-ranking clan leaders with a level of power rarely seen outside of major battles, from someone who otherwise appeared innocuous.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Betsy said in a small voice. “I can fix it!”

She raised her hands again, Azazeal still gripping her by the scruff of the neck, and this time a warm golden light flowed from her palms, washing over the three bodies on the floor. Their wounds—and those of the injured Virgo—began to heal before the onlookers’ shocked gazes, and in a moment they were all sitting up with dazed expressions.

Well, that was a new one.

“Take those three away,” Azazeal ordered the guards, of the two clan leaders and the young Scorpio. He would deal with them later. “Music!” Upbeat oldies began to play, although people were still talking and whispering. “Come with me,” he told Malachi and Thelma—finally!—pulling Betsy through the crowd with a hand on her arm. The happy couple were now cuddling contentedly, and seemed to have missed the entire episode. Wouldn’t want them to have bad memories of their reception, after all.

They disappeared through a door and then down the hall to Azazeal’s office, where he put Betsy firmly in a chair beside his desk. “Now, who is this?” he demanded.

“That’s Betsy!” Thelma blurted.

“I’ve been trying to tell you—“ Malachi insisted.

“ _This_ is not Betsy,” Azazeal countered. “The Betsy I gave you was a sweet little level five demon, perfectly adequate against average threats.” His fingers lightly caressed her face, somehow sinister for all their gentleness. “And not too ambitious for loyalty. _This_ ,” he continued accusingly, “is at least a level ten. And you are ambitious, aren’t you, my dear?”

She seemed affronted by this insinuation. “I would never let anything happen to Malachi—“

Azazeal turned away from her, giving Malachi an expectant look. “Betsy was dying,” he began, impassioned.

His father leaned against his desk, unmoved. “I could have gotten you another bodyguard,” he dismissed. “What did you _do_?”

Malachi somehow knew he wasn’t going to like this. “I used one of those power crystals you gave us,” he admitted, and Azazeal’s eyes narrowed.

“Those are for _you_ ,” he snapped, “and your mother. Not to waste on a garden-variety demon.”

“Betsy’s my friend—“ Malachi tried to explain, wondering what it said about his parents that they both found this so difficult to understand.

“Have I done something wrong?” Betsy worried, and Azazeal turned his attention back to her, taking her hand to kiss it theatrically.

“You _are_ something wrong, my dear,” he corrected, nonetheless with a charming, shark-like smile. His hand went back to her pretty face, drifting down her throat to her chest, as Malachi huffed at his apparent crudeness. “You have a very powerful artifact right in there, in place of your cold, dead—“ He paused, his fingers splayed over the skin above her cleavage, then went back to her throat.

“Could you not grope—“ Malachi finally demanded.

“She has a heartbeat,” Azazeal interrupted.

“What?”

“Demons aren’t supposed to have heartbeats,” Thelma pointed out, in case anyone was unaware of that. She didn’t have one, and Azazeal didn’t, and none of the people Betsy had attacked did. Mortals like Cassie did, though, and some other magical creatures, and currently Malachi did, though eventually it would cease.

Intensely curious now, Azazeal brought Betsy’s had to his mouth and bit down on one finger with his incisor, drawing blood. Once released the small wound healed almost instantly; but the minute sample of her blood could tell him a great deal about her. “Hmm,” Azazeal commented cryptically, staring at Betsy. She squirmed self-consciously. “You infused her with some of your power,” he finally diagnosed, glancing at Malachi.

“Yeah, that might have happened,” the teen agreed reluctantly. The whole episode was kind of a blur—power crystals, herbal powders, light and energy of various colors and temperatures zapping all over the place—it was hard to say exactly _what_ had happened, except that he had really wanted to save Betsy.

“Is that bad?” Thelma wanted to know. “Does a heartbeat mean she’s good? Or bad?” Being no longer possessed of a heartbeat herself, she really hoped there wasn’t a moral value to this.

“I would never do anything to hurt Malachi!” Betsy repeated. “I only want to protect him!”

“Well, I think I’m going to have to give you a _thorough_ evaluation before I can let you guard Malachi again,” Azazeal told her. His intent was obvious; sex was very casual in the demon world, especially with the King, and Malachi assumed that meant he didn’t find Betsy _too_ much of a threat, just articulate enough to now be interesting. He had certainly never shown such interest in Betsy _before_.

“Really? You’re just going to have sex now?” Malachi accused with some disgust.

Azazeal was already taking off his suit jacket. “Go back and enjoy the reception,” he suggested to Malachi and Thelma. “It’s being catered by Marizetti’s.”

“See ya!” Thelma declared, popping off.

“Betsy, will you be okay?” Malachi persisted. He had never been interested in her _that_ way, either, and didn’t know how she felt about such attentions.

“Oh yes,” Betsy assured him, not seeming distressed at all. “Will _you_ be okay?”

“Malachi is perfectly safe here,” Azazeal promised her, loosening his tie. “Nothing will harm him. Go away,” he nudged his son, who rolled his eyes one last time. “Malachi. Ask your mother to invite me to tea sometime. I miss her.”

He apparently saw nothing amiss about declaring this while brazenly preparing to have sex with someone else. Malachi was certain _he_ would never have _that_ much confidence. “I’ll tell her,” he replied, and shut the door.

**

Azazeal arrived at the door with flowers, exotic and expensive and faintly glowing with some sort of magic that probably wasn’t supposed to be used for such frivolous things. He smiled at Cassie as he handed them over, knowing she was trying not to roll her eyes at the ingratiating gesture. And also knowing that if he’d shown up empty-handed, she would have been disappointed.

“Cassie. You’re looking well,” he told her as she let him in. “A little tired. How have you been sleeping?”

She held up a finger in warning. “We’re not even going to go there,” she informed him, getting a vase down from the cupboard for the flowers.

“Where?” Azazeal asked innocently, walking around the kitchen island for a better view. “Your sleeping habits? I’m concerned about your stress levels, that’s all. That’s the third attack in your shop this year.”

Somehow he had managed to start out flirtatious, and end up serious. “I’m well aware of that,” Cassie noted shortly, putting the vase of flowers down directly in front of him. It was a bratty move but she doubted he would mind. “Do you have any suggestions for how to keep my shop from being attacked? That I won’t immediately object to,” she added preemptively, as he opened his mouth.

That gave him pause. “I’ll have to think that over,” Azazeal admitted, with that maddening half-smile he so often wore. Moving the shop into the royal palace, making all customers go through demon security—those were his initial ideas, but he understood well enough that they would be shot down. In truth, as long as Cassie and Malachi had good bodyguards and an escape route to the palace, he was less concerned about the shop itself.

Azazeal followed Cassie to the living room, where tea had been set out. “Possibly, some additional hexes or charms could be used, to catch threats at the door—“ He had access to the collective knowledge of the Earth’s magical creatures, so there did not exist many problems without a possible solution.

But he could see Cassie did not like this suggestion, either. “The more hexes and charms you put on the place, the more it spoils my product,” she claimed. “They feel _itchy_.”

Azazeal resisted making an innuendo about itches needing to be scratched and merely sipped the tea Cassie handed him. “You’ve done well with the shop,” he told her, which was complimentary but also true. There were medicinal herbs and flowers crowding every window, thriving under Cassie’s aura. “The place throbs with magic.”

Cassie was not interested in discussing whether or not something throbbed, and refused to be distracted watching his long, blunt fingers caress the edge of the teacup. “What do you think of Betsy?” she asked instead, cool and businesslike. Which faltered when she couldn’t help but add, “According to your _thorough_ evaluation.”

Azazeal’s smirk broadened for a brief, irritating moment. “Trustworthy,” he judged. “I wouldn’t have let her return otherwise. And potentially much more useful,” he added. “Not sure she can _prevent_ attacks, but perhaps she’ll end them faster. I could send you even more guards—“ He stopped at Cassie’s look. “But I think you would object to that. The power crystals are not for use on demons,” he went on, suddenly more serious.

“It wasn’t _my_ idea,” Cassie disavowed.

“They were difficult to obtain, and should be used only for you or Malachi.”

“He has compassion,” Cassie continued. She paused, then admitted, “I’m not sure where he gets that from.”

Azazeal laughed at this, showing too many teeth. “He has loyalty to his friends,” he corrected. “And we know exactly where _that_ comes from.” Not many people would insist on keeping the ghost of their dead friend around—not once they saw what it was really like, anyway. Azazeal himself did not have friends, only family. “What do _you_ think of Betsy?”

Cassie allowed her expression to show some negativity. “Still getting used to her speaking,” she commented. “She’s more… noticeable now.”

“I can have her transferred—“

“No, she seems very protective of Malachi,” Cassie conceded. “They’ve all gone out to the movies.” Malachi could buy one ticket and a lot of junk food, and enjoy the show with his two invisible friends.

Azazeal set his teacup aside. “So they’ll be gone for a couple of hours, then?” he surmised, in a suggestive tone.

“Please,” Cassie scoffed. “This is not a _booty call_.” Azazeal found the term similarly déclassé. “What about the Scorpios and the Capricorns?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk about demon politics?”

“Yes,” Cassie claimed, seizing on the topic. “Well, I want to know that they aren’t going to threaten my son again.”

Azazeal leaned back against the couch, one arm along the back like a lion lounging in his territory, even though this was _Cassie’s_ house. The arrogance of the posture always riled her. “ _Our_ son,” he corrected, “was in no danger, even before Betsy put on her light show. Nothing can hurt him in the palace. I’d prefer he lived there—“

“He can’t be kept in a cage,” Cassie countered. “He’ll grow to hate us.”

“That might happen anyway,” Azazeal tossed back lightly. “Children supplant their parents, that’s the way of the world.”

“What happened to _your_ parents?” Cassie asked tartly.

“Let’s not go _there_ ,” Azazeal parroted back to her, neatly ending that line of discussion. “We could bring _in_ anything Malachi wanted,” he went on. “Movies, food, humans for… whatever.” For once he wasn’t being salacious; he really couldn’t think of a good use for humans.

Cassie rolled her eyes, his occasional cluelessness making him somehow more relatable. “You can’t _bring in_ independence,” she pointed out. “He would feel too trapped and controlled.”

The smile was back. “We know where _that_ comes from, too,” Azazeal noted. Cassie was proud of her independence from him—for a certain value of independent, given that he owned the building, paid the bills, and had demons watching them at all times. Even that counted as a concession for someone as controlling as Azazeal, however, and secretly he admired Cassie’s strength of will.

He leaned forward, more towards her. “I hope you don’t think I want to trap or control _you_ ,” he suggested, his voice silky.

Cassie tried not to be sucked in by those impassioned blue eyes. “Oh, I _know_ you do,” she countered, leaning forward unconsciously. “I know that’s _all_ you want.”

“Not quite all,” Azazaeal assured her, his gaze raking over her. When his eyes rose to meet hers again he raised his eyebrows slightly, seeking an invitation.

“That’s not going to happen,” Cassie stated, standing abruptly. She had to put her back to him; she could still _feel_ him in the room, oozing power and magnetism and that intense, addictive focus on _her_.

“As you like.” His voice sounded slightly dismissive, as if it was no big deal, a feeling he could easily switch off, unlike her. A stab of irritation went through her and she whirled around.

“That’s not why I asked you here,” she insisted. She was above falling for Azazeal’s charms, wasn’t she? That was what she told herself each time, anyway.

Right before the inevitable happened. Again.

“I wanted to talk about Malachi,” she went on, as Azazeal watched her with his head slightly tilted, as if she was a curious thing. “And Betsy.”

“And we have,” Azazeal noted. “We’ve been terribly responsible, don’t you think?” He paused. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Cassie replied, too quickly. She couldn’t stop herself from drifting closer to him. They were both adults, free and unattached, with a unique emotional history that could be very satisfying—so what was the harm in the occasional indulgence?

“Have you thought of something else for us to talk about, then?” Azazeal asked with a slow smile. He stayed seated on the couch, drawing her in like a moth to a flame. She wanted to knock that smug smirk off his face—one way or another.

Moments later, they were up against the wall, kissing passionately. Azazeal made everything seem so easy; but if he fumbled with the buttons of Cassie’s shirt, or knocked the vase over (catching it just in time), that made her feel more powerful, which was intoxicating. He could have anyone in the world—creatures with exotic delights Cassie could not even imagine, who were all lining up to get a bit of attention from their king, but it was _Cassie_ he kept coming back to. She tried to enjoy that sensation for what it was, without reading more into it—too much thinking about Azazeal only led to trouble.

They lay in bed later, having made it there eventually, with Cassie staring off at the ceiling while Azazeal nuzzled the back of her neck. She couldn’t help feeling like he’d _won_ again, and that necessarily meant she had lost.

“You are good at that,” she conceded.

“Thank you.” There was that smirk in his tone.

“You’re s—t at everything else,” she added, and he laughed. She thought about what Malachi always said about her. “Are you offended?” she asked Azazeal curiously. “When I say things like that.”

“I’m never offended by anything you say about me,” he responded, purring in her ear. “I would be offended if you _stopped_ saying things.”

That should have sounded pathetic—give me any attention at all, even something negative! But Azazeal could never be pathetic, and somehow made the statement seem powerful, as if he was choosing to indulge her. How did he manage to do that? It was _irritating_.

She felt him moving behind her. “Unfortunately, my love, I have to leave you,” he announced regretfully, and started to get dressed. Cassie rolled over to watch, always hoping for some flaw or awkwardness, something _human_. But he wasn’t human. “I have to go to Malta for a meeting this evening,” he continued. “Vampires prefer to meet after dark. But I should be back sometime tomorrow.” He traveled extensively, as there were many magical creatures who couldn’t, wouldn’t, or shouldn’t bring themselves to London. Though apparently Skype was making things easier. “If you need anything, you can call—“

“I know,” Cassie assured him.

He sat down on the bed to kiss her again. “Thank you,” he said, “for the tea.”

“Lock the door when you leave,” she replied brusquely. Whenever he walked away the sinking feeling inside her deepened, a low-level shame and frustration as though she’d binged on junk food or squandered her day in frivolities. She doubted _he_ felt that much conflict, about anything, ever. She heard the door shut downstairs and forced herself to get out of bed, needing to clean up before everyone else came back home, so she wasn’t _completely_ obvious and pathetic.

**

Thelma and Cassie stared down at the pregnancy test stick numbly, the two lines unmistakable. Feeling suddenly nauseous again, Cassie hurriedly leaned over the toilet and dry-heaved, her stomach empty.

“That b-----d,” she gasped when she could speak.

“Azazeal?” Thelma guessed. “Tea time?” She had been suspicious when she got home that day, but Cassie had clearly not been in the mood for questions.

She nodded, anger mixing with a profound feeling of unwellness. This time the man had said nothing about another child or heir; she had thought Malachi fulfilled his ambitions there. But Azazeal had a long history of omitting important information, in order to get his way.

“Will it be as fast as last time?” Thelma wondered. The pregnancy with Malachi had been abnormally brief, with all the hormone fluctuations and discomfort equally compressed and intensified.

“It seems like it,” Cassie agreed grimly. “That was only last week!” There already appeared to be a minor swelling around her belly, making her jeans uncomfortably tight.

“What are you going to do?” Thelma asked. Last time had been muddled enough—trying to prevent the Demon King from having his heir had seemed like a worthy enough goal, but once Malachi actually existed in the world, an innocent child, Cassie’s priorities had started to shift. “A baby is good now, right?” Thelma continued hopefully. “I mean, they won’t be in the messy stage for long, they’ll be a teenager so fast!” Malachi had worked out well, in the end.

“I’m going to see him,” Cassie determined, standing. As quickly as her nausea came it had left, leaving her filled with a sense of righteous indignation, and not a little self-loathing, that she had fallen for his tricks again. That he had targeted her to be _used_ a second time, when he had all the world to choose from. Thus fueled Cassie pounded down the stairs and out the door.

“Don’t you want to take the car?” Thelma asked, chasing after her. Normally Cassie was calm and collected; when she was finally stirred up, she could go on a rampage.

“No,” Cassie snapped, already halfway down the sidewalk. “Driving takes too long!” She also tended to lose much of her common sense, so actually it was probably better she wasn’t behind the wheel.

As evidenced when Thelma grabbed her arm to prevent her from stepping unwisely into the street—which she wouldn’t have been able to do if Azazeal hadn’t granted her the ability to touch Cassie and Malachi years ago, on the grounds that she wouldn’t be very useful in an emergency otherwise. “Cassie! Watch out for the cars!”

Cassie huffed and waited impatiently on the corner, as if the traffic was out to personally thwart her. When it slowed she stomped across the street to the demon royal palace and took a breath, prepared to demand that the guard let her in, but he merely opened the gate without a word. Well, that ire could go to Azazeal too, then.

The doors of the palace opened to her automatically as well and she pinned the receptionist with a deadly look as she marched across the tile floor. The demon swallowed nervously—of course everyone knew who Cassie was, but it was hard to know exactly how to deal with her, since she refused to fit into any of their traditional roles.

“Where is he?” Cassie snapped, trusting the receptionist knew exactly who she was talking about.

“Um, I’m so sorry,” the woman stuttered, her face too large for her head. “He’s in a very important meeting right now—“

Cassie didn’t care. “Call him and tell him to get his a-s out here right—“

“I’m here,” Azazeal said calmly from behind her, steadying her when she jumped. “What’s wrong?”

“You selfish, lying, manipulative b-----d!” Cassie began furiously, shoving off his hands.

Azazeal quirked an eyebrow. “You know I love it when you berate me, my dear,” he claimed dryly, “but I _am_ in the middle of an important meeting, and you’re scaring my staff. What can I do for you?”

Cassie was suddenly not sure what to say—if she’d held onto the pregnancy test stick she could have waved it dramatically in his face. “Oh, you’ve already done plenty,” she snapped instead, petty and unhelpful though it was. “I’m pregnant,” she blurted, the words coming out as more of a sigh, before she dredged up her anger again. “You couldn’t have just _told_ me you wanted another—“

“I didn’t know it would happen,” Azazeal claimed, his expression a perfect blend of wonder and delight that made Cassie feel mean and cynical. “Are you—“ Gingerly, checking her reaction first, he placed his hand on her belly, and his grin widened. “I swear, I didn’t know,” he insisted, to her scoffing face. “It didn’t happen the other times.”

“What other times?” Thelma asked suspiciously, reminding Azazeal that he and Cassie were not alone. Well, that was easy to fix.

“Go away,” Azazeal ordered his staff, who knew what was good for them and vacated the lobby quickly. Of course the news was going to spread around the palace immediately. “How do you feel?” he asked Cassie.

“Like s—t,” she admitted with resignation. Unfortunately she believed that he hadn’t known, so the anger that had fueled her charge down here was ebbing away, without leaving anything in its place.

He took her arms, his grip not _painful_ but somehow more distant than he usually was with her. Obviously. “What are you going to do?” he quizzed her. “Can I trust that you are not going to do anything harmful to the child this time?”

His words hit her like a slap. “Of course I won’t—“ But it wasn’t really ‘of course,’ was it, because she had tried to abort Malachi, seeing him as the fulfilment of an evil goal. Azazeal had manipulated the doctor into saving the baby as a preemie instead; and Cassie had since changed her opinion. All of which left out another crucial fact. “Because _this_ time when we had sex, I was able to freely consent,” she reminded him sharply. Malachi had been conceived while she was under the influence of one of Azazeal’s spells, a fact he often managed to overlook.

He smiled again, the tiniest hint of self-awareness in it. Their past was nothing to make light of; but it suddenly seemed so long ago, even though it was only five years. So much had happened since then, during which Azazeal had, if anything, protected humans from the forces of the demon world, rather than unleashing them as Cassie had feared.

“Sit down,” he encouraged her, a chair conveniently appearing. He crouched down effortlessly, to look up at her. “All of you must move into the palace—“

“No—“

“—until the baby’s born,” Azazeal finished firmly. “It won’t be long, just a month or so.” He rested his hand on her belly again, as if he could sense something from the being growing within—perhaps he could. “To make sure everything goes well. You’ll need a doctor—“

“Not a demon doctor,” Cassie specified firmly. They tended to have inaccurate ideas about what the human body could do.

“No,” Azazeal agreed. “I know of a human who would be suitable. May I?” he asked, bringing her hand near his mouth.

She tried to be disdainful of this barbaric magical practice. “Fine.” Carefully Azazeal drew one finger into his mouth and then bit down on it, winking as he released a drop of blood. The small puncture healed almost instantly while he sat back and assessed. “Well?” Cassie finally asked impatiently. “Everything’s alright, isn’t it?”

“Yes, everything’s alright,” Azazeal assured her with that smile. “We’re going to have a little demon princess.”

Cassie grinned suddenly, then teared up. “G-------t,” she muttered, sniffling. _Hormones._ But a little girl—she could not deny that the idea moved her, that maybe it would be okay to be happy about this.

“Cassie?” asked Thelma worriedly.

Azazeal handed her a tissue, indulgently. “Have rooms made ready for them,” he ordered off-hand.

“Are you talking to me?” Thelma asked with some indignation, looking around at the otherwise empty room.

“No.” Azazeal was rarely ever talking to Thelma.

“Well, you sent everyone else away.”

This did not bother him. “They’ll get the message,” he stated confidently, his eyes never leaving Cassie.

“I get to pick the name,” she asserted.

“Well, alright,” Azazeal conceded with reluctance. “I get veto power, though.”

“No!”

“I cannot have the demon princess named something ridiculous, like… Webley or Peaches,” Azazeal insisted sternly, and Cassie scoffed at him.

“Do you really think I’d name my child Webley or Peaches?” she asked haughtily.

“I like Peaches,” Thelma put in. “Princess Peaches. Like a video game character.”

Azazeal stood smoothly. “That’s exactly what I’m _not_ going for,” he pointed out. “You will move in today?” he checked with Cassie. “I’ll send people to help you pack.”

“It’s only temporary,” she reminded him firmly. With Azazeal possession was nine-tenths of the law.

“What about the store?” Thelma wanted to know, and Cassie sighed, feeling overwhelmed by all the decisions that had to be made. She could see Azazeal circling, ready to make them _for_ her.

“I’ll think of something,” she stated resolutely, and he gave her a little smirk, as if understanding her concerns.

“I have to get back to my meeting,” he decided, “unless you need anything else at the moment?”

“No, thank you,” Cassie replied, trying to clean herself up to go back out and face the world. They were still in the lobby, which was normally somewhat busy, and the demons who usually inhabited it would probably like to get back to work. Not that Azazeal cared about _that_.

He leaned in to kiss Cassie’s forehead, a gesture both chaste and intimate that made her want to start tearing up again. “I’m very happy today, Cassie,” he told her, his blue eyes glowing with laser intensity. Then he backed away and left, keeping her in sight as long as he could.

Demons started to trickle back in, humming and whispering to themselves, and staring at Cassie sitting randomly in the chair. She sighed and started making a list of everything she needed to do.

**

Living at the royal palace wasn’t so bad, for the moment. Cassie tried to think of it as a holiday, which she rarely took, because weird things always happened when she relaxed too much. The store was closed for the time being; regulars could still place orders by email, and Malachi volunteered to deliver them. He had told everyone, rather proudly, that his mum was having a baby soon, and reported that most people covered their confusion at Cassie being his mother by simply saying congratulations.

Cassie had been worried Malachi might have conflicted feelings about this new addition to the family, but so far he seemed pleased at the prospect of someone else who knew what his unique position was like (though he might have preferred a brother instead).

The demons were very solicitous, and good at backing off when Cassie became cross with their hovering. Like old Betsy, they did not seem entirely sapient, but she could not fault their skill at foot massages, and at the moment that was more important than sparkling conversation.

The doctor Azazeal had found, McAdair, was a cheerful young Scottish fellow. He was friendly and personable, entirely unsuited to the world of demons one would think, until he got onto the subject of demon autopsies, at which point he took on a slightly Dr. Frankenstein-like vibe. Otherwise he had a very good bedside manner and a competence that inspired confidence; considering how often Cassie had to report to him, she was glad for that.

Azazeal had also not been as overbearing as Cassie had feared—true, she was not allowed to leave the grounds of the palace and a demon was never more than a few feet away at any time (some even sat quietly in the corner while she slept). But aside from that he had encouraged her to find things she enjoyed doing, from advising the gardeners to researching in the library and brewing new elixirs in the kitchens. Demons were willing, even eager, guinea pigs, but it was hard to say how their reactions would translate to humans, which was the point for Cassie.

Every few days Azazeal would make a point of spending time with Cassie and Malachi, doing incredibly banal but enjoyable things like watching a movie, having a picnic, or playing a board game (of course Azazeal always won, unless he purposely took a dive, but at least he was gracious about it). At first, Cassie noticed how Malachi appreciated the attention, normal and low-key as it was; then she noticed how _she_ appreciated it as well. _Then_ she noticed how Azazeal’s casualness was anything but (when did he _ever_ do anything casually?), and started to feel somewhat… wooed. As if he was saying, ‘This could be your life every day, if you would allow it.’ Between the wooing and the hormones and the downtime, Cassie found herself having some very conflicted thoughts indeed.

“You’re not thinking about staying here permanently, are you?” Thelma guessed as they took a walk in the gardens.

Her tone suggested this was a negative. “Remind me again why that would be a bad idea,” Cassie requested of her, knowing she could count on Thelma for this service.

“Well, I don’t want to see you get hurt again,” the ghost pointed out. “He seems alright lately, but you know that can’t last. He’s the demon king! He’s got all kinds of devious plans up his sleeve.”

Cassie nodded, trying to keep that in mind. “He’s kind of like a gangster,” she tried to tell herself. “Morally very murky. Bound to hurt an innocent person at some point.”

“ _Again_ ,” Thelma agreed pointedly, which Cassie granted. Thelma’s death at Azazeal’s hands was what had allowed his rise from an enforced hibernation to further bedevil Cassie and the world.

“It does seem like crime has gone down, since he came back and took charge,” Cassie offered speculatively. “One could argue it’s better to have someone in charge, than to just let demons run around doing whatever.”

“ _I_ never noticed any demons before I became one,” Thelma shot back. “I was blissfully ignorant and much more fashion-conscious.”

“And calorie-conscious,” Cassie noted with a smirk.

“Yes, well, just because it’s not _all_ bad, doesn’t mean I would’ve chosen it,” Thelma replied, and Cassie took her hand.

“I’m glad you’ve been here, Thelma,” she told her warmly.

Thelma smiled and started to reply, but just then a sharp pain overtook Cassie and she gasped and clutched at her belly. “What is it?” Thelma asked in alarm.

It passed after a moment, leaving Cassie gasping. “I don’t know, it felt like—“ Another sensation, different but equally painful.

“Are you having contractions?” Thelma worried. “It’s not time yet—Help! Guards!”

Cassie had ceased to think about much except the pain inside her and how it was going to affect her baby. Every other concern would just have to be dealt with by someone else—she knew Thelma could be relied upon to get help at least.

The demons had begun swarming Cassie the moment she first appeared to be in pain and they carried her indoors to the clinic. “Get the doctor!” Thelma was shouting, though this was part of the demons’ protocol already. “Where’s Azazeal? Someone call him! Hang on, Cassie, it’s going to be okay—“

Cassie was not sure how that was possible. This was not a labor pain, they were in the wrong place—more like the baby was twisting and kicking with abandon, and a great deal of force. She closed her eyes and squeezed whatever hand was foolish enough to grip hers, unable to keep from crying out.

“Okay, Cassie, okay now.” The soothing voice of Dr. McAdair got her to open her eyes. “Let’s just see what’s going on in there,” he continued, brandishing a sonogram wand. “Try to lie still, alright? We’re going to figure this out, don’t worry.”

“Why should I worry,” Cassie responded dully, trying to catch her breath during a temporary reprieve. Then the pain started again, a throbbing ache that went straight up her spine.

A shadow loomed over her and a strong, warm hand slipped into hers. “Cassie? Shh, relax, I’m here now.” Like she’d been scared because Azazeal hadn’t been right there, and not because something was obviously, horribly wrong with her. She feared that her attempt at disdain was lost in the way she leaned into him with a sob and clutched at his shirt. “Shh, shh, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.” Cassie believed him; but she didn’t want to keep living, if it meant being in this kind of pain.

“Doctor?” Azazeal prompted, cradling Cassie against him. There were many things he could attempt but at the moment he wasn’t sure which would help and which hinder.

“It looks like the baby is shapeshifting inside her,” McAdair observed, watching the sonogram image. “She must have just developed this ability, and she doesn’t realize it’s hurting Cassie.” Demon-human hybrids were fascinatingly unpredictable. “A sedative should help temporarily—“

Azazeal did not have time for temporary. “Will the baby survive if you take her out now?” he interrupted.

The doctor considered this, quickly. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then do it,” Azazeal ordered. They were both better off separate, it seemed.

“Okay,” the doctor announced to the room. “We’re doing an emergency C-section. Nurse, run an IV.”

Cassie tried to stay calm, but her heart was pounding; she was certain Azazeal could feel it. He brushed his lips against her temple. “Shh, my love, it’ll all be over soon,” he murmured.

“Cassie, I’m going to sedate you,” the doctor told her, approaching with a syringe. “I think it will just be easier that way. When you wake up you’ll feel much better.”

Azazeal released one of her hands for the injection, stroking her cheek instead. “What do you want to name her?” he asked Cassie, by way of distraction as the sedative rushed through her veins. “Did you decide?”

“Charlotte,” Cassie murmured, closing her eyes. She didn’t remember feeling sleepy, only that everything was suddenly black.

**

As she woke up, she heard some murmured singing, and light began to filter in. Everything seemed hazy but oddly peaceful, or perhaps numb was a better term, and she forced herself to try and open her eyes.

“Cassie?” Thelma’s voice, off to the side, but a different dark shape was in her line of sight, silhouetted against the window, and it loomed closer, resolving as her eyes focused.

“Are you awake, my love?” Whatever else Azazeal was, at that moment his voice filled her with a sense of calm, a certainty that he was taking care of everything.

“Where’s—“ Her voice was croaky; Thelma held up a cup of water for her to sip. “Where’s—“

“Here she is.” Azazeal turned the bundle in his arms to face Cassie, a tiny pink face peering out of the blanket with surprising alertness.

Cassie burst into tears. It felt inevitable. “Is she okay?” she asked. “Shouldn’t she be—“ In a box, in intensive care, wherever they put premature demon babies.

“She’s fine,” Azazeal assured her in a soothing tone. Cassie realized it was him who had been singing earlier. “She’s just fine. Do you want to hold her?”

Cassie could only nod mutely, and Azazeal carefully put the baby in her arms, which felt like lead when she tried to lift them. He sat beside her on the bed and slipped his arms around her to help, raising the baby closer to her shoulder. The baby yawned, her little fingers flexing on the edge of the blanket.

“Our little princess,” Azazeal commented warmly.

“Charlotte,” Cassie specified.

“Yes.”

“She finally stopped shapeshifting,” Thelma added. “Shock of being born, the doctor said.”

“I didn’t know she could do that,” Cassie admitted.

“It’s very rare,” Azazeal claimed. “She’ll be very powerful someday, won’t you, little princess? You have a few things that need to heal,” he added to Cassie. “I’ve got a fairy waiting to accelerate that.”

Cassie sighed. So much for pretending, for a moment, that they were normal.

**

The two men who walked into the shop were wearing suits and dark glasses, and somehow from their demeanor Cassie didn’t think they were looking for all-natural hangover cures. “Uh-oh,” commented Thelma.

“Can I help you?” Cassie asked anyway.

“Cassie Hughes?” one questioned, flipping open his police badge.

“Take it and make sure it’s real,” Thelma advised.

Cassie gave her a chiding look, even though the men couldn’t see or hear her. “Yes,” she replied. She knew all her permits were up to date; demons were infernally good at paperwork. It was hard to get nervous about ordinary police officers, after what she usually faced.

“We’d like you to come to the station and answer some questions,” the other officer said in a friendly tone.

Cassie merely raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

“Your landlord,” the first officer—the designated ‘bad cop’—said, with more than a hint of distaste.

“Just some questions that we’d like to get on the record,” the good cop assured her. “You aren’t being charged with anything.”

“Alright,” Cassie agreed with a shrug, because what choice did she have? She watched crime dramas, she knew the ‘request’ phrasing was a mere technicality.

“Cassie! Don’t go with them!” Thelma countered, impractically. “Police stations are horrible places! They’re full of criminals!”

“Call the lawyer,” Cassie told her calmly, gathering her coat and purse.

“Mr. Wix, the demon lawyer?” Thelma checked. Azazeal employed only the best.

“That’s the one.”

The bad cop had drifted around to glance in the back room. “Who are you talking to?” he wanted to know.

Cassie gave him an inscrutable look. “Do you see anyone?” she asked in return, as if it was rhetorical. He did not, but frowned as he followed her out the door, suspicious now. Cassie found it unlikely he would guess the truth.

She turned the shop’s sign to ‘closed’ and locked the door behind her. Somewhere around here were Azazeal’s demon watchers; she wished she had some kind of signaling system with them, to say she was okay and they shouldn’t attack, but also they should follow her and let Azazeal know what was going on. That was a pretty complex thing to signal, granted; but she was more concerned about them swooping down on the police officers and killing them, and glanced around to see if she could head them off.

“Are you looking for someone?” asked the bad cop.

“Do you see anyone?” Cassie repeated dryly, and got in the back seat of the car as indicated. This left the two officers staring around alertly for a moment, but if Cassie didn’t see the demons, _they_ certainly wouldn’t.

So the police were interested in Azazeal? It was hard to know what to make of that. Cassie knew he had plenty of dealings with the human world—business—but usually he tried to keep a low profile, and work through intermediaries. Maybe they thought he wasn’t paying his taxes. Cassie had to stifle a snort at this absurd thought, covering it with a cough that still drew glances.

At the police station Cassie sat in a room with a video camera trained on her, listening as the good cop—Gilbertson—assured her she wasn’t in any trouble, and they just had a few questions. Her lack of nervousness seemed to bother him. The bad cop—Bradley—came in with an ominously thick folder and sat down at the table.

“Please state your name for the record,” Gilbertson requested.

“Cassie Hughes.”

“Your landlord is Azazeal Black, correct?” he continued routinely.

“Azazeal,” Cassie said, correcting his pronunciation. Emphasis on the _zeal_. “Did you say his last name was _Black_?” she added curiously, and they looked up in surprise.

“What name do _you_ know him by?” Bradley pounced.

Cassie shrugged a little. “I didn’t realize he _had_ a last name,” she admitted. “Like Cher or Madonna.”

Bradley rolled his eyes, not so much at Cassie as the whole situation. “Are we even talking about the same person?” he complained in frustration, digging through his folder. He produced, not a photo of Azazeal, but a sketch.

It was not very lively, but she recognized him in it. “Yes, that’s Azazeal,” she confirmed. It seemed harmless enough to do so. On TV people often made the mistake of saying too much, not waiting for their lawyers; but Cassie didn’t see how she could get in trouble, knowing little of Azazeal’s earthly misdeeds and not having done anything wrong herself.

“Azazeal Black,” Bradley confirmed flatly.

“If you say so.”

“Your landlord, pays the bills, father of your two children?” Gilbertson listed more politely.

“Yes.”

The door opened suddenly and they all looked up; it was Thelma coming in, but only Cassie could see her. “I called Mr. Wix, he’s on his way,” she assured Cassie, perching in the chair beside her.

“Good,” Cassie replied.

Gilbertson had gotten up to check the hall, and shut the door with a shrug. “What?” he asked Cassie.

“Did you have any other questions?” she prompted coolly. She slid the drawing of Azazeal over to Thelma.

“Well, that’s him,” the ghost agreed. “His nose looks funny, though,” and Cassie took another look.

“How old are your children?” Bradley wanted to know.

“It’s complicated,” Cassie responded.

“Our records indicate Malachi Hughes is seventeen,” Gilbertson noted, “so I would assume you’re not his biological mother?”

“You know what happens when you assume!” Thelma taunted.

“I’m not really seeing a police matter here,” Cassie observed, ignoring Thelma only with difficulty.

“Maybe they secretly work for a tabloid!” the ghost speculated. Cassie felt rude not acknowledging her friend, so she gave her a look at least.

“Okay,” Gilbertson agreed, with Cassie’s comment. “What does Aza—Aza—“

“Azazeal,” Cassie supplied again.

“I hope they don’t Google him,” Thelma worried. “Well, they’d think someone named him _after_ the legendary demon, not that he _was_ —“

“What does Mr. Black do for a living?” Gilbertson asked, overlapping with Thelma.

“He has some antique shops,” Cassie recalled. “And real estate.” This was true, but not necessarily the _entire_ truth, and Cassie was not the most gifted at prevarication. Helpfully Thelma grabbed her arms when she started to shift around, and she straightened back up quickly. The officers probably thought she’d just had a mini-seizure or something.

“He imports a lot of cargo from around the world for his ‘antique shops,’” Bradley went on, giving her a sideways look. “Over twenty million pounds last year.”

Cassie had never heard a figure put on it before. “He likes old things,” she shrugged. A lot of it was magical artifacts, of course; he sold the low-level stuff, but kept anything powerful in his archives, for study and safety. Apparently there were a lot of magical items in the world.

“What do they even want?” Thelma asked indignantly. “The way he said ‘antique shops,’ like they really weren’t—“

Cassie took her point. “I’m sure one of Azazeal’s business people can answer these questions better than I can,” she said coolly.

The officers ignored this. “A lot of the shipments he imports come from Central Asia,” Gilbertson added leadingly.

“There are a lot of old things there.” The world’s first civilizations began in Central Asia, after all, when humans first learned to harness the powers of nature but were also more aware of the supernatural realm.

“There’s also a lot of opium poppies,” Bradley snapped.

He was very serious, of course, but Cassie was afraid she might have snorted a little in response. “You think Azazeal is a _drug dealer_?” she chuckled, perhaps unwisely. It was just so absurd.

“We think he wants to be _the_ drug dealer,” Bradley replied sharply, and began slapping photos down in front of Cassie, graphic crime scene images of people shot through the head. “Over a dozen high-level drug cartel members wiped out in the last year alone—“

“Ew, don’t look, Cassie!” Thelma insisted at the same time, turning her suddenly.

“I’m okay, it’s alright,” Cassie assured her, straightening back up. She looked at the officers instead of the photos; they were staring at her with alarm. “I don’t know anything about drugs or murders,” she told them calmly.

“Azazeal did say something about trying to reduce the crime rate,” Thelma recalled dubiously.

“Yes, but there’s always another drug dealer, isn’t there?” Cassie replied, then tried to pretend she was talking to the officers. “I mean, that’s a poor strategy, isn’t it? I’ve always thought so. You kill one drug dealer, even a _lot_ of drug dealers, and new ones just pop up to take their place. At least that’s what always happens on _Forensic Unit_.” She feared she might be babbling by the end.

“Hey, I just realized, those initials are FU,” Thelma blurted, and Cassie choked on a laugh, trying to disguise it (again) as a cough.

The two officers seemed slightly dubious now, not of their own information but of Cassie’s worth as an informant, and possibly a sane person. Gilbertson slowly gathered the photos back up. “We have evidence linking Mr. Black to these crimes—“

“Really,” Cassie commented skeptically. Azazeal, Demon King, was not going to leave _DNA_ at a crime scene, or be caught on a security camera. Nor was he very likely to shoot someone in the head, Cassie imagined. Actually she didn’t like being forced to _imagine_ it at all—the demon world was violent, but so was the human world. And the human world was so much smaller and pettier in comparison. “You really have _no_ idea what’s going on, do you?” she couldn’t help commenting with a faint smirk.

This intrigued the officers, at least. “Well, why don’t you tell us, then?” Bradley suggested.

“Cassie,” Thelma warned nervously.

“Oh, they wouldn’t believe me anyway,” Cassie decided, not really caring anymore what they thought of her. “I feel sorry for them, really. You know Azazeal will be angry, and they’re just trying to do their jobs.”

“Yeah, but why bother worrying about the deaths of drug dealers?” Thelma asked, and Cassie shrugged.

“I don’t know, I’ve never understood that either,” she admitted.

“Understood what?” Gilbertson asked blankly.

“I don’t think I can really help you much,” Cassie noted.

“Nor would you want to!” Thelma added.

“True,” Cassie agreed. “It would be better to let me go now, I think.”

“Azazeal’s going to be angry no matter what,” Thelma predicted.

“Yes,” Cassie nodded, more seriously. “It’s kind of funny to think about, him being a drug dealer, but real people could get hurt.”

“Who could get hurt?” Gilbertson probed.

“Who are you talking to?” Bradley wanted to know.

“This guy is so repetitive,” Thelma judged. That was a cardinal sin in her book.

“I think it’s part of the technique,” Cassie suggested.

“Maybe we should call in Dr. Rogers,” Gilbertson said to his partner, attempting to be discreet.

“Gotta be a shrink,” Thelma guessed. “They think you’re crazy!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Cassie sighed. Before she met Azazeal she had been considered a _boring_ person.

At that moment the door opened and Mr. Wix, the demon lawyer, popped in. His head was rather squashed and he had eyeballs on the ends of his fingers, which was useful for a lawyer but tended to make Cassie a bit nauseous. Fortunately the other humans in the room could not detect these features and saw only a dignified older man with a fondness for spray-tans and unnaturally blond hair.

“I am Ms. Hughes’s lawyer,” he announced pompously, “and I insist my client either be charged with a crime or released immediately!”

“Hopefully not the first one,” Thelma suggested.

“No one’s being charged with any crime,” Gilbertson replied calmly. “Ms. Hughes was just answering a few questions for us, of her own volition—“

“That ends now,” Mr. Wix ordered. “Come on, Ms. Hughes, we’re leaving.” Cassie stood, relieved to be rescued. “I’ll need a copy of that tape,” he added, indicating the camera.

“Wait for me!” Thelma said, racing out the door after them. The two officers let out large sighs.

“It was nice of you to come, Mr. Wix,” Cassie told him politely as they exited through the police station. “It’s all been rather a nuisance.”

“Not at all, just doing my job!” he assured her. “I’m so sorry they bothered you! He’s quite upset about it.” That was Azazeal, who could not be called by his rightful title in earshot of ordinary humans. “Wanted to come down here himself and get you! I managed to talk him out of it.”

“That’s good,” Cassie remarked dryly.

“Yeah, he would’ve toasted someone,” Thelma predicted. Her tone indicated she might’ve liked to see that. “I mean, they were very rude,” she defended, when Cassie gave her a look. “Asking all those questions about the kids. Very gossipy!”

They got into Mr. Wix’s waiting car. “Now, I’ll need to go over everything that was said,” he announced seriously, brandishing a pen in his eyeball-tipped fingers. “Sometimes they’re quite slow about sending the tape.”

“They think Azazeal is a drug dealer!” Thelma exclaimed with a laugh. “They think he’s importing opium and killing other drug dealers!”

Cassie did not take comfort from the nonchalant way Mr. Wix scribbled this down. “Mm-hmm. And how did you respond to that?”

“Derision, I think,” Cassie recalled. “I told them he was importing antiques for his shops. Why would they think Azazeal was killing drug dealers?” she asked suspiciously. “They said they had evidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure they don’t,” Mr. Wix replied breezily, which did not really answer Cassie’s question. “Now, did you say anything about demons, or magic in general?”

“No,” Cassie assured him. Although it certainly couldn’t have hurt their impression of her by the end.

With Thelma’s eager assistance Cassie tried to recollect all the conversation for Mr. Wix. It was surprisingly difficult, given his lawyerly preference for precision. “Next time, just don’t say anything at all,” he advised her, in a very delicate and respectful way that she recognized as admonishing. “You don’t have to, just wait for me to get there.”

They pulled into the driveway of the castle, and Cassie rolled her eyes as she saw Azazeal waiting there, _outside_. There were demons attending him who scattered at his signal, but it was obvious he’d been anxiously pacing. She found this exasperating, but also slightly flattering, and knew she would have been irritated if he hadn’t seemed affected. He at least allowed her to get out of the car on her own and avoided getting too handsy as he approached.

“Are you alright?” he wanted to know.

“Perfectly fine,” she assured him.

Skeptical, Azazeal turned to Thelma, whom he rarely had a use for. “How did it go?” he asked her.

“I thought they were very rude!” she repeated emphatically, now that she had an interested audience. “They said Malachi couldn’t be her son, and made her look at photos of murdered drug dealers!”

“I’m fine,” Cassie insisted peremptorily as Azazeal took her hands. Some people just fussed too much—she was not a little china doll, after all. “They seem to think you’re moving in on the drug trade.”

“So pedestrian,” Azazeal scoffed. “I’m very sorry they bothered you. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” The way he said that, with a flash of menace behind his eyes, made Cassie worry about the police officers’ safety.

“It really wasn’t a big deal,” she dismissed, as he put his arm around her and guided her into the palace. “I’m sure you’ve been doing suspicious things to attract their attention.”

“Oh, certainly,” Azazeal agreed lightly, seating her on a couch. “Tea? Major businessmen always attract attention.”

“I don’t think they’ll bother talking to me again, though,” Cassie judged as she sipped her tea. “I expect they think I’m mad, between talking to Thelma and not knowing your last name.”

“Last—oh, yes,” Azazeal recalled. “Black. Pointless, used only on official paperwork. British identification systems are very biased in favor of Western name conventions, despite our increasingly globalized society.”

“Right,” Cassie commented at his all-knowing tone. “They only had a drawing of you,” she noted curiously. “No photographs. That seems odd.”

“Not really. I have enchantments in place to make sure I can’t be photographed,” Azazeal replied off-hand. “Standard for anyone who’s immortal these days, really. Only your camera works with the children,” he added, before she could ask about all the pictures she took of Malachi and Charlotte. “I trust you aren’t distributing those anywhere.”

“No, you said not to,” Cassie reminded him.

“Excellent.” Azazeal set his tea cup aside with finality. “Well, I must consult with Mr. Wix about my legal options to combat this police harassment,” he planned, and Cassie feared he was serious. “Will you stay?”

“No, I have to get back to the shop,” Cassie decided. “Malachi and Charlotte will be home soon. Did you leave them a note?” she asked Thelma, who cringed.

“I forgot!” she admitted. “There was too much excitement!”

“We’d better go then. Mr. Black,” Cassie shot back as she left, and Azazeal just gave her a bemused look.

**

It was not difficult to locate the Demon King—the demons scurrying around the palace mutely pointed with their malformed appendages whenever Cassie asked. She just did not expect the trail to lead to some sort of dank storage room in an obscure wing of the palace. The space was bustling with demons pouring over ancient books and high-tech laptops, while Azazeal stood in the center of the room looking impatient.

He _must’ve_ been angry, because usually he sensed Cassie’s presence immediately, and this time she had to announce herself. “There you are,” she commented, and his head snapped around. He looked, in a word, uncomfortable, and that intrigued her.

“Cassie,” he greeted, and made an effort to relax—though none to move towards her. “How are you? Was I expecting you?” he checked.

She smirked, knowing something was _definitely_ going on. “I just dropped Charlotte off for swim lessons,” she noted, which was a regular occurrence. “Thought you’d be out there to meet us.” As he usually was, missing no opportunity to ingratiate himself with Cassie or interact with their daughter.

Belatedly Azazeal recalled this. “Yes, sorry, my love,” he replied lightly. “Very important meeting, couldn’t get away. I will definitely see Charlotte before you leave.”

Cassie walked a little closer, into the hive of activity. The demons here were mostly very short, and she was an expert at ignoring them anyway. “Is something wrong?” she guessed.

His face said yes. “Ah, why do you ask?” he replied lightly.

Cassie crossed her arms over her chest. “Because you haven’t budged from that spot,” she observed. From a closer vantage point she could see that he was standing on a large board on the floor, onto which a large shape had been painted or carved. “Normally you don’t hesitate to get all over me at every chance.”

“And I’ve realized you don’t like that,” Azazeal claimed, his tone so reasonable. “I want to give you more space. You might enjoy a tour of the gardens today, there’s some excellent—“

A smirk blossomed on Cassie’s face and she started to circle him, cutting off his attempt at redirection. “That’s a very complicated-looking pentagram,” she decided, of the lines and symbols surrounding his feet.

“Yes, it’s quite fascinating,” Azazeal commented. “It’s from the slave era of the American South. Someone found it in an old barn and put it on eBay.”

“And you bought it for your collection,” Cassie surmised. A squat demon approached, bearing an ancient book almost as tall as he was, and muttered something under his breath. Azazeal seemed unusually interested in him, and turned back to Cassie only when the demon wandered off, seeming disappointed.

“Yes. It seems to be a mixture of symbols from West Africa, southeastern Native American, and Christianity,” he finally described, in a scholarly way. “Obviously meant as some kind of protection against evil.”

“Are you stuck in it?” Cassie asked.

He did not want to say yes. “I was assured it was gobbledygook,” he replied, his severe tone meant for the demons around him, “but it’s more powerful than it appears.”

“So you’re stuck in it,” Cassie repeated, with a certain amount of glee.

Azazeal smiled tightly, trying to be a good sport about it. He rarely had anything to be a good sport about, however, and it was ill-fitting on him. “A temporary situation,” he promised.

“You really can’t get out?” He couldn’t even pace, confined as he was to the center of a complex series of circles, triangles, and stars.

With resignation Azazeal lifted a hand towards Cassie, and his finger hit a point of light, as though he was surrounded by an otherwise invisible force field. It seemed slightly painful to him as well and he pulled back sharply.

Cassie couldn’t help it; she let out a snicker, belatedly covering it with a cough. “Um, hmm, that’s unfortunate,” she remarked, trying for a straight face.

Azazeal sighed. “Go ahead,” he encouraged magnanimously. “You should have some fun at my expense. You deserve it.”

Somehow his generosity dampened her amusement, which was no doubt exactly what he intended. “Well did you try—“ she began, reaching for him.

“Don’t!” Azazeal ordered sharply, and she froze. “It blasted Twik halfway across the room,” he added, noting one demon who was still huddled near a large dent in a metal cabinet.

“Huh,” Cassie replied, drawing back. She crouched down for a better look at the symbols, and so did Azazeal. “So this is just a board?” she checked.

“Yes, it was part of the barn’s floor, apparently,” he confirmed conversationally. “Well, in the hayloft. It might have been used for summoning and containment of a demonic spirit of vengeance,” he mused. “My researchers are trying to discover if anything horrible yet mysterious happened to the slave owner. Obviously this wasn’t a widespread skill or American history would’ve been very different—“

Cassie could skip the history lesson; she was starting to realize how vulnerable the rest of them were, if Azazeal was truly trapped in this small space and unable to wield his power and authority. “There’s nothing you can do?” she questioned him.

He saw her attitude turn and might have preferred her amusement at his expense. “There are many things I can do,” he promised. “I haven’t really tried yet because I didn’t want to damage the artifact. Why don’t you go wait upstairs?” he suggested. “I’ll be out in a few minutes, I’m sure. So I have been told,” he added sharply, glaring at his demon helpers. Another one approached the symbols with a wand but got blasted backwards with a yelp.

“They won’t be very motivated to help you if you’re angry at them,” Cassie tsked, moving around to look at another section.

“Oh, they’re motivated,” Azazeal promised/threatened. “Really, go wait upstairs—“

If he could not even take two steps out of his spot Cassie was not very intimidated by his authority (not that she ever was). She was a witch, albeit largely untrained; surely there was something she could do to help. If Azazeal’s enemies found out about this, it was _her_ children who were next on the hit list, after all.

“I’m no expert on magical runes—“ she began.

“That’s okay, there’s several in the room,” Azazeal quipped.

“—but doesn’t this heart usually indicate something about love?” she suggested, pointing to one symbol.

“Is that a heart?” Azazeal asked tolerantly. “It looks more like a three-pointed object to me.” But Cassie was currently the mother of a five-year-old and knew that hearts were frequently rendered with three points, as the curves were difficult to get right.

She stood up and took in the view—the Demon King trapped on a piece of rotting barn wood, his assistants scrabbling to translate each crudely-carved symbol in turn. It was just nonsense.

Her personal magic, Cassie had learned, was as much about instinct as study. So she reached out and grabbed the lapel of Azazeal’s jacket, dragging him off the board and into a kiss.

He broke it much faster than usual, and she savored his expression of astonishment. “How did—“

“A girl gets impatient,” she told him cheekily. “Swimming lessons are only forty-five minutes.”

Azazeal saw her point. “Out,” he ordered the demons, who scurried to obey. “Put that thing in the deepest level of the archives,” he added of the board, “until it can be decoded.” He turned back to Cassie, who was still enjoying her moment of smugness. “Hmm.” He leaned down to purr in her ear. “Does that mean you must love me?” he asked her, teasing but with bite.

Cassie would not give anything away, however. “I’m sure all of your minions love you, Your Majesty,” she shot back. “But do you love any of _them_?”

Azazeal grinned slowly. A Demon King was not made to love; it did not come easily to him, bountifully. But there were a few people he had let into his heart. “Very clever,” he praised Cassie. It was a loophole worth looking into; but not right now. Instead he ducked down to kiss her again and pointed them towards a convenient couch, because a girl _did_ get impatient.

**

Cassie paced the bedroom restlessly. There were demons perched in the shadows, fluttering their bat-like wings and waiting for any sign that she needed something. She was supposed to be resting after her ordeal, while Azazeal dealt with the perpetrators—the ones that had been taken alive, anyway. They would soon wish they’d had a quick, clean death like their comrades. Cassie could not work up much sympathy for them—live by the sword, die by the sword. Or in this case, if you f—k with the Demon King, prepare to be f----d up in return.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door and Azazeal strode in, looking relaxed and refreshed by his bout with torture—when _didn’t_ he look that way? “Out,” he told the demons, and they scurried from all corners of the room—corners where Cassie didn’t even know they’d been lurking—to exit swiftly. Azazeal looked at her with disapproval. “You’re not resting,” he pointed out.

Cassie rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Azazeal stretched out across it, as if that might encourage her to lie down. Because he had time to do that, coax her into taking a nap, while running his demon empire.

“We’ve established that you’re not harmed,” he said after a long moment.

“Yes.”

“And you understand that here, you’re perfectly safe.”

“Yes.” She’d been caught out on the street, by people who had carefully watched and planned.

“So what’s wrong?” he asked curiously. “Are you traumatized?” he suggested when she didn’t answer. He slid up beside her, his arm going around her shoulder. “We can deal with that. I know a therapist, he’s a centaur and very soothing—“

Cassie huffed and pushed away from him, standing. “Or I can find you a human one,” Azazeal went on, though his tone was getting dry as he saw this wasn’t the right track.

“I suppose this is just another day for you,” Cassie finally snapped.

“Not really, no.”

“Well, sorry for getting you off schedule,” she shot back, with deep sarcasm. “I’m sure you’ll get caught up soon.”

Azazeal stared at her thoughtfully, assessing. He could not actually read her mind—their history would be so much different if he could—but having been around a very long time, he could usually deduce the right motivation by observation, if he wanted to.

“Oh,” he finally said, as though he’d figured it out. That amused half-smirk was back, infuriatingly, and Cassie spun away from it. “You think I didn’t show enough effort.” He stood fluidly and approached her, his hands ghosting over her tense shoulders. “You think, because I make things look easy,” he purred in her ear, “that means they _are_ easy. And _that_ means, I don’t care.”

She wouldn’t have put it exactly that way. She would have put it less articulately, sputtered with emotion and sarcasm. So he made _that_ look easy, too.

He turned her slowly, tipping her head up to make eye contact. His blue eyes blazed with the passion of a fanatic, like they always did. At least around her. “I do care, Cassie,” he told her. “I will _always_ come for you. Even when you don’t want me to. Even when I shouldn’t.” He turned her back, gently, when she tried to look away. “That’s a weakness, Cassie. I’m not supposed to have any weaknesses.” Carefully he pulled her against his chest, where she clutched at him, the tears she’d refused to show earlier finally starting to fall. She didn’t _want_ to keep fighting him, it was just hard to trust in him, when his sense of morality was so different from hers.

He stroked her hair soothingly, his lips brushing her forehead. “I’m going to find a way to make you immortal, Cassie,” he whispered, like he was telling her a secret he was really trying to hide from someone else. “I’m not supposed to do that. But I want to keep you with me forever.”

He _had_ to mean it, didn’t he? As long as Cassie kept doubting him, kept holding back, she was never really going to know, because she was always going to find something to be suspicious about, something to fight against. Why did she always have to do that?

Her tears came harder and his arms tightened around her. She had always wanted to be strong and independent, but that didn’t have to also mean pushing away the people who cared about her, who could help her. Taking a breath to calm herself, she closed her eyes and just let herself fall.


End file.
